


wherever you're going

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers the party, the one Raven had forced her to attend, and… And that’s about it, really, because she has no idea how she ended up in the Alpha Rho Kappa house when her last memory is of tequila shots at Grounder’s. Great, just great. At least it’s Saturday – no classes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She only needs to wake up to know she isn’t in her bed. It doesn’t take much, really – just the mattress and the smell of the room, distinctively masculine. Well, scratch that. Distinctively _him_ , and Clarke hates herself a little for knowing his smell by heart because she doesn’t want to be that kind of person. Still, she gets the confirmation once she opens her eyes, not that she really needed it to begin with. The walls are full of posters – rock bands, mostly, and movie posters too – and everything is a mess and, yeah, she definitely is in Bellamy fucking Blake’s bedroom.

The body pressed to her back and arm wrapped around her waist were a dead giveaway, too. But oh well, she thinks as she closes her eyes again and tries to remember what happened last night. Alcohol, most likely, since she actually has to force herself to remember, the memories not flowing seamlessly – _lots_ of alcohol. She remembers the party, the one Raven had forced her to attend, and… And that’s about it, really, because she has no idea how she ended up in the Alpha Rho Kappa house when her last memory is of tequila shots at Grounder’s. Great, just great. At least it’s Saturday – no classes.

He stirs behind her and… “Stop thinking so loudly.” _Of course_.

His voice is heavy and hoarse with sleep, and it definitely doesn’t bring a shiver down her spine. Neither does the way he tightens his hold on her waist (the clingy, possessive bastard) and kisses her shoulder. She’s still sore from their activities of the night, muscles aching and mind buzzing, yet she leans into his chest, moves even so slightly – her ass brushes against his cock, and he groans in her ear. A smile settles on her lips. So easy.

“We need to stop doing that,” she says – her actions obviously contradicting her words, but she isn’t going to be the one to point that out.

“What, the beer pong? Yeah, I agree, you’re crushing my boys’ ego every time.”

She rolls her eyes – not her fault if Miller and Sterling insist on playing with her even if they lose every single time – but the movement get sloppy when Bellamy’s hand trail down her stomach and between her legs.

They need to stop doing that, they really do.

Tomorrow, maybe.

Today – well, today she raises one leg and gives him free access, knee going to rest on top of his tight. Her mind is still hazy with sleep (and alcohol) and so is she, but they’re at their best that way – not totally able to think this through, to question their actions, their relationship. It’s a can of worms Clarke refuses to open, and so she closes her eyes instead, mouth opening in a silent moan when his finger circle her clit. He doesn’t rush this, obviously in no hurry, teasing her with his fingers as he keeps kissing her shoulder, her neck, the pulsing point just below her ear. It isn’t fast and passionate, unlike all those other times together, yet he leaves her breathless with the slow rhythm of his fingers inside her, thumb pressed to her clit as he finds that spot that has her moan and sigh.

She comes disturbingly fast (always does with him, because Bellamy knows her by heart, knows every inch of her body for having worshipped it so many times) and when she hits her release, she sees white, she sees stars.

She breathes loudly, raggedly, when she comes down from her pick, and doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to see that damn smirk of his, the one with the dimples flashing. He irradiates smugness, rightfully so, as he turns her around so she lies on her back and he settles between her legs.

“Good morning, princess,” and, yes, the smirk is here.

She doesn’t have the strength to roll her eyes, not this time, and so instead grabs him by the neck and pulls him to her in a bruising kiss. “I knew you’d warm up to me, eventually,” he had said once, and Clarke refuses to think about it – refuses to acknowledge he might be right, she might not hate him as much as she used to.

(The frat president with a penchant for parties and sex, a girl on each arm and then some. She used to loath him, she really did. Has no idea when it changed, when he became more than the stereotyped fratboy, the obvious asshole.)

Bellamy groans into the kiss, refuses to break it even as he leans to one side and opens the drawer of his bedside table and grabs a condom – what can she say, the boy is skilled. It barely takes him a few seconds to open it and roll it down his cock and then he’s breaking the kiss, if only to look at her in the eyes.

She knows what he’s asking, even if the question remains silent, and so she nods, nods and grabs his upper arms. A sigh escapes her at the feel of him inside her, pleasure mixing with the pain of her sore muscles as he starts to move, back and forth movements that have her closing her eyes and throw back her head. It leaves him access to her neck, and of course he jumps on the occasion – ever the possessive asshole, leaving hickeys in his path every chance he gets, like he’s marking his territory or something.

Not that it matters much right now because – well, because he hits that spot deep within her, the one that makes her see stars, and nothing matters but his name tumbling out of her mouth in a broken whisper, his groans pressed to the sensitive skin of her neck and his skin against hers, hot and soft and _everything_.

She finds herself close to her second orgasm in so many minutes, moans stuck at the back of her throat and – damn it, he _knows_ , because his fingers find her clit once more, rubbing until she comes with a sigh of his name. He only needs a few more seconds, hips slapping against her, to follow, and then he falls on her, nose still pressed to her neck as their heavy breathings mingle.

“And a good morning to you too,” she says after a few minutes, when she’s certain her voice is back.

Bellamy chuckles. “That it is.”

She relishes in the weight of him above her, and he plants a kiss to her collarbone as she threads her fingers through his dark locks – his hair is longer after an entire summer of not cutting it, and it makes him look boyish in a ridiculous way. She loves it.

(She loves… No, she won’t go there.)

They settle into an easy, comfortable silence, and Clarke would think he fell back asleep – he has a habit of doing just that, typically masculine – if it weren’t for his fingers drawing patterns on her ribs. Sometimes it is hard to believe they are not a couple – nothing but fuck buddies, casual sex when they’re too drunk and too needy – because this, this is the casual intimacy only couples should be allowed to share. But Bellamy likes his women, and his reputation. Clarke knows better than to hope for more than a good fuck after a wild party.

Not that she wants more anyway. Been here, done that, burnt her wings on that exact same topic with Finn. She knows better than to think she is relationship material, with her busy schedule and crazy lifestyle, more focused on library hours than boys. It will kill her one day, or so Raven says. Maybe, but at least she has Bellamy to release the pressure once in a while, and it is more than enough. It ought to be.

“I should go.” She isn’t sure if she says it for his sake or her own but she adds, for good measure, “I’m meeting your sister for brunch and it’s probably eleven already. Or something.”

An entire meal not meeting Octavia’s eyes for more than a second, least she reads her mind – the brunette’s perceptive that way. Clarke can’t wait.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, simple moves and falls back on his own pillow with a groan. She has no doubt he will be asleep before she even reaches the front door, but it doesn’t stop him from staring at her while she looks for her clothes in every corner of the room. (Her bra ended on the bookshelf, between two history books, _of course_.) Her skin prickles as his eyes follow her, but that’s Bellamy for you – he’s never been shy in his staring, and she’s never been good at pretending it doesn’t affect her.

She throws him one last smile over her shoulder, one he lazily mirrors, before she sneaks out of the bedroom. The house is surprisingly silent, but she knows better. The Alpha Rho Kappa boys are never silent, unless they’re planning something. But she’s past climbing out the window at that point so she makes sure to hold her head high as she goes downstairs.

Can’t be a wall of shame if there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Still, it doesn’t stop the morons from clapping and whistling the moment she steps into the main room (animals, those guys are _animals_ ) and Clarke refrains herself from rolling her eyes. Instead, she stares them down, each and every one of them. Miller is the whistler, of course he is, and he throws a wink her way when their eyes meet. At least Jasper goes a little pale, that’s comfort.

“How was it?” Monty asks, apparently having borrowing some cheek from his boyfriend – as if on cue, Miller claps him on the shoulder with a laugh

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

Which is enough for them to make even more catcall noises, and she does roll her eyes this time, even with the ghost of a smile on her lips. She’s been around them long enough to know they mean no harm, though, that they’re simply teasing. She’s warmed up to them after a while, the way she did their president. (Not really the _same_ way but. Oh well.)

Her phone buzzes in the back pocket of her jeans, and she’s barely surprised when it’s Bellamy’s name showing on her screen. Out of reflex, she looks back to the stairs – he stands on the top of them, leaning against the banister in nothing but his boxers.

“Until next time, princess.”

She shakes her head at his antics, and his laugh follows her out of the house.

It is only when she reaches her own residence hall that she thinks of checking the text he sent her.

_what about coffee some day?_

She frowns, types a reply. _Is that a date?_

Her phone buzzes in her hand as she climbs the stairs, and the one word on her screen manages to both make her blush and create an army of butterflies in her belly.

_yes_

(She definitely doesn’t meet Octavia’s eyes at brunch.)


	2. Chapter 2

“I can’t believe we’re studying. At the library. On a Friday evening.”

Clarke glances up from her textbook – Renaissance art is killing her right now – to glare at her best friend. Raven has that way about her, in that she barely scans her notes five minutes before the test and always scores the best grade of her class. She’s a genius like that. Clarke doesn’t have this chance, and so she has to study, like a normal human being.

“Nobody forces you to stay,” she replies, motioning at the space around them.

The library is mostly empty at that time of the day, when everyone go downstairs for diner or give up for the day and go back to their dorms. Only a handful of students, including Clarke and Raven, are brave (or perhaps mad) enough to stay so late on a Friday night.

Raven sighs, long and loud. “Going to party alone is even more depressing than staying with you. I’ll feel guilty knowing you’re here on your own.”

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, amused by Raven’s loyalty, as she grabs a highlighter and turns the page of her textbook. Truth is, she would rather be partying right now too, but Wallace gave them a five-page paper to hand in on Monday morning, nine o’clock sharp. It will take most of her weekend. She refuses to come out of it with less than an A.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she replies, and takes a sip of her tea. It’s mostly cold now, and makes her winces. “Remember when I was fun?”

Raven cackles. Bitch.

“Oh I miss this Clarke.”

“Shut up.”

“Remember how wild, carefree Clarke drank an entire frat house under the table and crowned herself Queen of Beer Pong?”

Clarke laughs softly. The guys at Alpha Rho Kappa still haven’t forgiven her about it, and it was two years ago. Probably because she forced them to hang a picture of her on their Wall of Victors, just to rub it in. Yeah, she misses wild, carefree Clarke too, sometimes…

Raven is about to add something, no doubt another story involving a very drunk Clarke, when the blonde’s phone chimes from its place on the table. Some people glare their way, some hush them, and Raven dives for the device before Clarke has time to even think about grabbing it.

She lets her do – Raven is her best friend, after all, and she knows her password. There is absolutely no point fighting her on this anyway, less she wants Raven to send a virus to her phone and laptop – the kind that plays _Call me maybe_ on repeat for five hours straight with absolutely no way of stopping it. Raven is horrible that way.

“It’s a snap,” Raven tells her.

Clarke hums as she goes back to her studying. “Yeah, Monroe’s cat had a litter. She keeps sending me pics to guilt-trip me into adopting one.”

Raven does a sound that may or may not be a giggle, even if she will forever deny producing such sounds. Especially about kittens. Because Raven Reyes doesn’t like cute things. Whatever.

(Sometimes, Clarke believes Raven likes to pretend she’s one of those robots she builds.)

The next sound out of Raven’s mouth, though, very much _isn’t_ a giggle. No, it’s something else entirely, and it has Clarke concerned as she finally raises her head from her textbook. Raven stares at the phone’s screen, pensive pout on her lips and frown on her brows.

“I’ve already seen that chest somewhere,” she says in her thinking voice, and Clarke literally feels the colours draining out of her face.

“Give me that!” she snaps as she lunches for the phone, tears it from Raven’s hands. The harm has already been done, anyway, so there is no point, but there is still the smallest sparkle of hope that Raven _doesn’t_ recognize the chest she just saw, because Raven has a good memory but not _that_ good and –

Damn it, Bellamy.

It’s as if Raven can hear thoughts, because then she’s staring at Clarke, with widening eyes and her mouth opened agape and, yeah, there’s not way Clarke is getting out of this – whatever _this_ is – alive. “Is _Bellamy Blake_ sending you nude pics?”

“No?” Clarkes tries, uselessly. Then, “Maybe? Who cares, really?”

Raven’s mouth opens even wider, and Clarke is concerned for a second there. Raven’s range of emotions doesn’t usual is that wide, or that over-the-top. “Are you guys fucking?”

Clarke very much considers the negative effects of repeatedly banging her head against the table, and the pros overcome the cons. Still, not exactly a good idea. But so is blushing from head to toes, and yet is she is.

“No, we’re dating. Kinda. It’s very casual.”

“Bellamy doesn’t date.”

Clarke is aware of that – Bellamy Blake, president of Alpha Rho Kappa and known womanizer. Rumour has it the only girl on campus he _hasn’t_ slept with is his sister, which is wildly disturbing. Not to mention heterocentric. But, yeah, Clarke knows of Bellamy’s reputation, probably more than anyone.

“Well, he’s dating me so…” She goes for a casual shrug, but fails epically.

“ _Oh my god_ …” Raven says slowly.

Clarke tries to go back to her textbook, she really does, but the strength of Raven’s stare makes her skin tingle and she can’t concentrate on the text in front of her. She reads the same line six times in a row before she gives up, and let her head fall ungracefully against the book. “I need to get drunk,” is all she says.

Raven woops.

 

…

 

Is Clarke surprised that Raven drags her to the Alpha Rho Kappa house?

Is she, _really_?

Answer is no.

And so here they are, in the middle of a party, of course, because it wouldn’t be a Friday night if the guys weren’t on their way to Drunk Town. It’s easy enough to make their way unnoticed through the throng of dancing people and to the kettle standing in a corner, but Clarke has no doubt someone will recognize them in a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

“Griffin!” someone yells. Bingo. “And Griffin’s friend, nice.”

Raven glares at Miller – one of the rare people on Earth not to be scared of her, and to use it to their advantage. Sometimes, Clarke believes he’s going to get killed in his sleep, and it would be kind of deserved. Miller only raises an eyebrow at the brunette, before he turns back to Clarke.

“The boss is upstairs.”

She nods at him, and the same time Raven says, “The _frat boys_ know?”

(One day, Clarke is going to be murder in her sleep, and it will be deserved, too.)

Miller gives her one of his rare smiles, more of a smirk really, as Clarke snags his red solo cup from him and downs the beer in one gulp. She smirks back, at him then at Raven, before disappearing among the crowd of people. Finding the stairs isn’t hard, it just takes a little time and some well-placed nudges in the ribs once in a while, and then she’s going up.

Bellamy’s door is closed, but not locked, so she sneaks in with no problem.

“Nude pics? Really?”

He looks up from where he’s chilling on his bed, arms folded behind his head, and grins at her. Clarke ignores how her heart does that weird flip-flop thing, like it always does when he’s looking at her that way.

“Needed to get your attention.”

“Got Raven’s attention alright.”

His grin widens. Jerk.

Thankfully, he makes it up to her.

(His chest looks better when not pixelated.)


End file.
